Z-Risen (Book 3): Poisoned Earth Read Online Free PDF Page A

glasses and a bright yellow rain slicker. I stared at the loud jacket.
    “Keep zombie bites out,” she said.
    “Smart,” I said.
    “Fall back. We need to find another way out of this place,” Joel said.
    “How many?” I asked.
    “Oh, about a hundred,” Joel said, and stormed down the hallway.
    “We help?” the man asked.
    “I don’t know, can you?” I asked.
    Don’t judge me. It’s the zombie fucking apocalypse. I’m all for helping my fellow man, but they have to be able to help themselves first.
    The woman unlimbered a lead pipe. There were bloodstains almost to the handle she’d made out of duct tape. I won’t lie, I was nervous. My encounters with other survivors had been hit or miss, from the nice folks at the RV park to the army led by McQuinn. I was about as trusting as a rat guarding the last piece of moldy cheddar on earth.
    The man lifted his jacket and showed a pair of revolvers. He didn’t make any other moves.
    “Well shit, I guess we’re friends now,” I shrugged, and followed Joel, hoping the man wouldn’t shoot me in the back.
    “I’m Tomas, and this is Doroyeta.”
    “Dori, like the fish from Finding Nemo ,” she said, and smiled.
    “Creed, Jackson Creed. And that guy is Joel Kelly.”
    Movement at the door. The first Z came in and sized us up. He actually looked surprised, but that could be because his mouth was stuck wide open, thanks to a broken jaw. Tomas reached into his jacket, drew his gun, and calmly shot the monstrosity in the face. The Z went down but was soon replaced by two more. To make matters worse, I thought I’d heard a shuffler out there.
    “Shit, man. Windows got bars. I guess we check the room with the locked door.”
    I rolled my eyes and prepared for the worst.

#23 - Survival of the Fastest
     
    11:20 hours approximate
    Location: Vista
     
    I wanted to trust the couple , but it wasn’t easy. This was a different world. Gone were the days of small talk, neighbors who helped each other out, and even passive-aggressive comments. What had become the norm--the social media-driven Facebook world--was toast, hell, the internet was deader than a zombie. Now it was down to survival of the fastest.
    Joel listened at the door for a half second then muttered, “Fuck it.”
    He stepped back, lifted his foot, and smashed the door in. It splintered around the lock and flew open to crash against the wall. I fumbled for my wrench, fighting all of the gear and shit that was hanging from my pack. The strap caught in the stock of the little assault rifle, so I ripped it to the side, banging the stock against my elbow in the process.
    The room was something out of a nightmare. The wall was liberally smeared with blood. Equal amounts of red stained the bedspread where it lay in a heap at the foot of the bed. The sheets were also a mishmash of gore and blood and the carpet, light brown, was splotched with blood stains.
    A picture hung on the wall, at an angle. It was the famous painting by Edvard Munch, called The Scream . Not that I was an art expert, but who didn’t know this work? I also had owned a print of it when I was a kid. Mom thought it was something that would make me smile. It gave me nightmares for years, but I never had the heart to tell her.
    The room contained a dresser with most of its drawers hanging open.
    A pathetic looking Z lay on the ground. He’d been eaten almost to the bone around his abdomen, and most of a leg was gone. He lifted his head to look us over, then dropped it again, hitting the wall right next to the door. That explained the banging.
    Another Z came at us. She’d been near the corner of the room, staring at nothing in particular. I didn’t even see her at first, because she was garbed in a dark dress and standing next to even darker drapes. She tripped over the Z and fell, hands out, so she caught Joel and dragged him to the ground.
    The couple moved in fast, taking her by the arms and hauling her off. The man pushed her against the